10th Sunday after Pentecost Sermon

The story of David and Bathsheba is one of the great tragedies of the Bible. It is a tragedy at every level, and from every perspective, and for every person involved.

It is a tragedy for Uriah, Bathsheba’s husband, who was a righteous man, a faithful man, a brave man – who ends up murdered by the very king in whose army he served. (Elsewhere in scripture we read that Uriah was, in fact, in the very top tier of elite officers. He was one of David’s best.)

It was certainly a tragedy for Bathsheba who was raped by the king and impregnated by him. She was widowed, violently, at the king’s command, and then absorbed into his haram. And, no sooner had the baby been born, then it died. Layer upon layer of violence and grief. And she was utterly powerless throughout.

And it is a tragedy for David, himself. David is a major character in the Bible. Were it not for this story, his record would be one of untarnished glory. From an historical perspective, he is – hands down – the best of Israel’s long line of kings. From a spiritual perspective, his witness is one of extraordinary devotion and genuine love for God. From a theological perspective, his kingship and personhood in the Old Testament anticipate the kingship and personhood of Jesus Christ in the New Testament.

And yet, this testament of his behavior with Bathsheba is an outrage. And it is this part of his story – his worst part – that we’ll look at today.

From the very first line of the story, it’s obvious something’s not right. “It was springtime,” it says, when kings typically go to battle. (I don’t know why they go to battle in spring. That’s not explained. It’s just a given.) And off goes the army to fight Ammonites. But David remained in Jerusalem.

Why? Why did he remain behind? Was he hurt? Depressed? Out of sorts? Dealing with some other crisis? I don’t know. The story doesn’t say. Something kept him behind, something (I suspect) that rendered him more susceptible to his inner demons. Which isn’t an excuse. Don’t mishear me. It’s simply a recognition that – like with all of us – when we’re down, we are far more vulnerable to behaving badly. Like he did.

It reminds me of a conversation I had with my aunt years ago. I was just out of college – at this impressionable young age of entering into the reality of this “adult world.” My aunt’s husband was something of a wreck. He really didn’t have what it took to function well or responsibly in this world – as a husband, a father, an employee. And she said, “Eric, there are days when I come home from work and all I want to do is get drunk – to lose myself in wine so I don’t have to face it all. But I don’t, because my girls need me.” And I remember saying to myself very clearly at that moment, “Eric, there will be seasons in your life where things are rough, which will make you vulnerable. So when those seasons come – and they will – you are not allowed to drink. At all.”

‘Cause here’s what happens (and we all recognize it): When we are down and feeling crummy about ourselves and our circumstances – or even if we’re just restless and discontent – that’s when we’re most apt to turn to something to comfort us, or distract us, or amuse us – something that’s usually not good for us. And we know it. And we do it anyway, knowing we’ll regret it, knowing there’ll be a cost to pay. And once we start down this path, it’s very hard to get off. And because we’re ashamed, we do everything we can to keep it hidden.

As we watch this tragedy unfold, what’s so painful in it all is that – at any point in the story – David could have pulled back. He could have done better. He could have put on the breaks or changed course. But he didn’t. Sin upon sin. Shame upon shame.

When he saw her bathing, he should have averted his eyes out of respect for her, but he didn’t. He kept watching, and letting his lust take over.

When he realized she was purifying herself after her period, did he think to himself, “Hmm. No better time than now, David. She won’t get pregnant. I’m the king, for God’s sake; who’s to stop me?”

Once he’d sent orders to have her brought to him, he could have come to his senses: “It’s one thing to fantasize about it. It’s another thing to actually act on it. Get a grip on yourself, man.” But he didn’t. He went through with it, to disastrous ends.

Then began the long, sordid process of trying to hide his sins: deceit, manipulation, and murder.

It is human nature, when we’re vulnerable and doing badly, to make bad choices. And when we do, almost always, we do them in private. And it is this private domain of ours that becomes the chamber of our downfall.

But if – while being broken and vulnerable, just like everyone is – we are also desiring to be better and to grow in faith and character, wisdom is there; waiting in the wings, offering us a better choice. And it begins with compassion: “It is okay to be weak. It is okay to be struggling or discontent. This life is hard. We all have a history; we’re all complex; we’ve all come through difficult things that have left us weak, that have rendered us vulnerable, that make us afraid. How could it be otherwise? So there is no shame in that.”

And yet, we are ashamed. And that’s what makes it so difficult. And that’s what gets us into trouble. In those seasons when we’re most in need of help is when we’re most likely to resist it. So we turn instead to that which does not love us, that has no qualms in hurting us and drawing others into the wreckage along the way.

But if we’ve allowed wisdom to speak to that weakened place, “Of course this is hard. How could it be otherwise?” then her next response often will be, “Who can you tell?”

This becomes the decisive moment, when shame and isolation can give way to comfort and kinship.

Shame tells us, “You are bad.” Which means, it is in these moments when we most need to hear – from another, actual person, “You are loved, because I love you.” It might not be with those words, but it will be with that spirit. And that message has the power of God behind it. Shame will send us burrowing into deeper and deeper dysfunction. The love of another can pull us out. But how can they know to do that, if we have not shared?

For this is what I’ve found to be true of this life: At a basic, elemental level we believe the darkest fears about ourselves to be “the truest parts” of ourselves. And, were they to be known, they would repel those around us. So we hide them. But in so doing, we end up protecting the shame and the fear – keeping it safe and undisturbed in the dark. And because we’re so successful at it, it can make all our relationships feel a bit fraud-like, that we’re only letting them know and love this sanitized version of ourselves, that if they knew everything about us, they’d be disgusted. So our fear of being alone and unknown, paradoxically ensures that we’ll remain alone and unknown.

But this is what I’ve also found to be true of this life: If we have the courage to be honest and vulnerable with those who we can trust, the opposite of our fears is realized. The vulnerability leads to more compassion, to deeper love, and a remarkable freedom.

I keep a ceramic jar on a shelf in my office. Inside is a small, smooth stone – a memory from the first time I ever dared to share the things I was most ashamed of. I was 19, at a camp, sitting on a beach with a friend, feeling the push of God as strongly as I’ve ever known it, to hide no longer. “Chris, I need to talk.” I was terrified. And I picked up that stone, and was rubbing it nervously, and I shared all those things that scared and confused me about myself. He listened graciously. And when I was done, he then began to speak, and shared just as vulnerably with me. What I feared would alienate me, in fact, did the opposite. I was known and I was cared for and I now had hope. And so did he.

It’s been 34 years since that summer. And when I review my life and my faith, it is that moment on the beach, rubbing that rock in fear, that is my turning point. I wasn’t instantly healed. The things I shared then remain the things I struggle with now. Most everyone, I suspect, has their particular rut to which they’ll always be vulnerable.

But what changed was the light was allowed, for the first time, to shine in that dark place of fear and shame and to begin the process of illuminating my soul. That all sounds so melodramatic (!) but it’s true.

And over time, as the shame lessens and my confidence in God’s grace grows, the light keeps piercing the darkness, breaking in from different angles, revealing new things. Faith is never just an intellectual endeavor. (Believe the right things!) Nor is it just an ethical endeavor. (Do the right things!) Rather, it is the heritage of our faith – and its centuries of wisdom – coming as light to shine in our lives. It is the universal grace and love of God made particular in us.

The storms and the waves of our lives are real – both those in the world and those that rage within us. Their threat and their power to destroy are true.

But look, walking upon the waves is one who is not threatened or sinking at all. It is Christ, coming to us in our distress. “It is I. Do not be afraid” (John 6:20).

We are not alone.

There are powers in this universe that are stronger than shame and fear, powers that heal and bring hope and light and peace, powers that come from God and through one another as love.

And so “I pray that you may have the power to comprehend, with all the saints … to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God.

“Now to him who by the power at work within us is able to accomplish abundantly far more than all we can ask or imagine, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen” (Ephesians 3:16-21).